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I pull the blankets aside, resettle the cats onto the pillows and sheets they've conquered for the evening, and softly press my cheek to the pillow. A deep breath. Today has been a good day. Another deep breath. Jesse and I spent several hours listening to music we both enjoy, conversing, enjoying the company of our relationship. Another deep breath.

I can't sleep. Words are running about in my head. Not words in any coherent order, mind you. Just letters tumbling over each other, filling my closed eyes with images of black and white text, lines and dots tangling in each other. Not words that have a point, not words that have something to say. Just. Words.

I get up and take a Xanax. The rest of my meds will kick in soon. The Xanax will stop the words just short of my plunge into my nightly medicinal coma. I will be able to have the internal silence I need to rest.

The words and I, forever chained to each other at the wrist, yanking one or the other one way or the other. They seem a separate thing at times like these, another being that lives in my head, crowding me out. If I could just hear what they are saying, it would be easier. But no, it's always just letters twisting through neural pathways, shooting across a wide and unfollowable crossword puzzle.

I do not believe in writer's block, only days when the words and the will do not line up. This is an inevitable process of writing. One does not come upon it and burn the pages in frustration. Maybe your sanity, but not the words themselves. I hear others speak of writer's block being what stopped them from penning words onto pages and I do not understand.

But there is much I do not understand. It's okay that this is one of them.

Ah - there we are. The Xanax is doing its job. The words are quieting themselves. The rest will follow shortly. This is what we do when we cannot write. We write about writing. I was able to write long enough about not having enough to write about.

This has satisfied the gods long enough for me to earn my sleep.
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You may be right, Matrix. It may be that steroids are the only treatment for certain parts of certain disorders. It's certainly one of the most common pills prescribed for lupus. But I just don't want to think that I'm that screwed. That I'd be painted into such a corner just because I got sick. I do know it wasn't terribly long ago that the only treatments for lupus were chemo and radiation, and that it was considered a fatal disease.

Looking at it that way, steroids don't seem SO bad...except they are horrible. Still, I guess incurable is a much better word than fatal.

Idk. Science needs to hurry the fuck up and figure this shit out, because I'm sure as hell not smart enough to cure lupus.

This blow-by-blow bullshit diary of my disease makes me crazy sometimes. It is an outright obsession. I suppose that makes sense, given how sick I still am, but geeeez. It feels like I'm listening to the same album over and over again. I'm beginning to be able to apply different connotations to the lyrics, but it's still the same band singing the same songs.

Does that make sense? I'm not sure if it did.

I feel as if I have no sense of give and take lately. It's all been take. Money, food, driving, emotional reciprocation - I've been taking those from people and giving them little to nothing in return. I know, realistically, physically, there isn't much I CAN give. No one is faulting me for it, but ***I*** feel it, and I feel it as being very wrong.

In an early episode of iZombie, the main character comes to the realization that she'd been spending so much time thinking about what she lost, rather than realizing what she had to give. Rewatching it as a person who requires some pretty heavy caretaking somedays, it really hit close to home.

Granted in the show, she uses her zombification to solve murders - and I am neither a zombie or able to solve murders. But what is it that I have to give?

Everyone around me points to my writing and goes "DUH. That's what you can give." But give what? A memoir that I have no idea how to start, structure, or even what it'd be about? Grant-writing, to which I think I'd like to do, but often fall short on energy to DO that kind of writing? Print out the last 13 years on Livejournal and just start shoving it at strangers on the streets?

Technicalities aside, I'm not sure if writing is what I'd want to give. Like, maybe it wouldn't be enough. It's certainly not going to make up for the thousands of dollars I've been borrowing, or for long nights Jesse has spent on hospital couches with me. It won't make up for the unrelenting avalanche of lupus bitching I've been throwing at all of you.

Is giving about making things up to people? About balancing the scales? It seems as if it should be. And if so, how do I balance those scales? What do I do, how do I serve others in a manner that will tip things closer to the middle?

What is my purpose here, in the middle of all this taking I've been doing lately? Where do I fit in?

I know, I know. Philosophy's been trying to answer those questions for thousands of years now. Me and my tiny little journal and what I'm writing in my tiny little journal are not going to be what solves them. But they're questions that, along with my red blood cells being eaten by lupus, are beginning to consume me.
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September 20th, 2016, 07:41 pm At the time of the following quote, we are smack dab in the middle of a manic episode.

""I'm not going to ruin anything. But dear god, does it finally feel good to have the energy to do exactly that if I really, really wanted to."

Except I DID ruin something. My skin when I cut myself. When the roller coaster took its inevitable plunge. I should have known better. Shoulda, coulda, woulda. It's both frustrating and fascinating to look over the last six months of entries - I can see things, things leading up to things, things that were coming right around the pass, things that prove that annoying 'hindsight is 20/20' cliche true.

It's like...y'know how trains have to sound their horns when they come across an intersection? I heard the horns, I just don't know if I recognized the blaring for what it was. Like I mistook it for something else. Something else like health or healthy people energy, after having been down so long.

Or else I just decided to stand there, figuring being hit by a train was a quicker way of stopping instead of throwing on my own tiny, inner-car brakes. Feeling as trapped and in despair as I was at the end of the mania, I think it was closer to this one.

So many signs, so many small pointers. It makes me wonder what, six months from NOW, I will re-read and shout "OH MY GOD HOW DID I MISS THAT?!" I know that's journaling in a nutshell - a process that gives us a process of looking back, but it's still astounding to me just how accurate it can be on the other side.

When I was younger, I was sure I'd be dead by 30. So sure of it that I'd made funeral plans. Well, I'm 35 and if I'm dead, then I've got a letter of complaint to write to Afterlife HR, because the afterlife is way too close to the aches and annoyances of the living. So I'm glad not everything is accurate.

But signs on the wall? That much is true. That much is most certainly true.
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There is no substitute for this. There never was. I just had to discover it, to stumble onto it. The original drug. The thing that took me away from me as a child, the thing that took me away from everything else as a child, the one thing that I could use to rip myself away from myself as an adult.

"Poetry is not a way out of yourself. It is a way INTO yourself. - May Sarton

That's this. That's writing. Words.

My wound care doctor asked how many degrees I had today - and it wasn't a joke. Apparently, sometimes I talk all kinds of pretty and smart and use multisyllabic words in casual conversation. It was a wonderful compliment. It was only a slight sting to reveal that I had attempted college, but never received anything outside of a foolishly self-inflicted low credit score.

"We do not claim perfect adherence to any of these principles, only progress. - AA

I've been attending nearly daily AA meetings. I am sleeping better, but I'm still up at 4 AM, max. I take the 6 AM meeting, a form of starting the day with an hour long meditation. The help, the calm it induces, has been beneficial in ways that waiting days between therapy would ruin. So much there to speak of. So much of which I am far too tired to to do so, of course, but eventually.

I know what I'm really afraid of. To name the terrors and the consequences that I want to avoid....if I can name them, I can write them. If I can write them, I can experience them, heady and real. I can write them, I can ink them into my body to give me a roadmap, or I can exhale them like smoke signals. They can become roadflares, not bonfires. Signposts, not roadblocks. And this is what I'm really afraid of:

What if I can give it all up? All of my anger? Of my bitterness, the grudges, the pain I have used to build the core of my strength? What if I manage to work it down to some level where it has no place in my life....and it turns out later in life I NEED it, but DON'T have it anymore?

My rage is so precious to me. My faith in using pain to overcome pain is sacred. It has held me together for so many years. I do not know if I have anything to replace to that, or if I could learn, if it would be as effective.

I do not ever want to lose my edge. The edge is what helps allows me to carve off the sharpest parts, the parts that would kill me, and leave them discarded, bloody and rotting, to the side of the road. If the turmoil, the forever, permanently boiling and roiling waters just two scratches beneath the surface settles....

will what's left be able to do the same job of keeping me strong? And how much more will it hurt if I can't find something that does the same thing?

Both Pat and Jesse say I am running ahead of myself. I've had enough tragedy in my life. There are parts that will never ease. Jesse likened it to a chimney - the chimney will always be there. There is and never will be a lack of firewood to chuck in and stoke the flames, should I need them. Pat echoed very similar sentiments.

I came to being able to put words to this while in a meeting. The topic had been emotional sobriety, the ways we use the tools to keep us emotionally fit for balance and hope. This is how I knew what I am really afraid of, at least right now.

There will be many things to fear down the road. Letting go, or working on, or even considering the possibility of living our character flaws in different ways, can be such unknowns. They are for me.

What will I lose if I decide to change such an integral part of how I handle my pain and strength? Can I handle it?

That's what's the words are for today. They are for naming the fears. This is the original drug. Medicine. The better drug. The one I can get better with.
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This whole waking up early thing is for the birds. And thanks to my work schedule, waking up "early" constitutes eight or nine in the morning. I don't even get the bonus of watching the sunrise (which was, for decades, one of my favorite things to do.)

Things I should do: Laundry. Go get cigarettes. Write something halfway meaningful.

Things I'm going to do: Be tired and grumpy and bored with writing. Maybe scoop out the litterboxes.

Jesse and I talked about how writing often seems the most useless thing in the world, even as we are compelled - nay, driven and obsessed - by it. It's a frustration I share. A frustration I think all writers share.

It's not writer's block. Writer's block is accepted as an inevitable part of the writing process. Inevitable, unavoidable, and pretty much the flip side of any word that we pen. Maybe writer's block is where a lot of other people give up. But that's not the problem here.

It's the act of churning out a product using our own words. Having to navigate the description of what is all around us in a way that allows us to dive under the words. It's a tall order and some days it just feels stupid to even try. My fingers are tired, I wish to remove them, to get under someone else's hands and keyboards and write something completely new.

But I don't write like someone else. I write like me. Jesse writes like Jesse. A person can sympathize with someone else, but it will always be your own voice reaching out. Everything you digest and spit back out will always be in your own voice, as there is no other place for a human being to live other than inside of ourselves.

Sometimes this is sacred. Other times, it is maddening.

In other news, I've got to stop antagonizing the Universe. All that ranting and raving about how I must never ever again have my period landed me with starting my period. It's odd, as my last Depo was only a month and a half ago. But then stress, diet, hormones, barometric pressure, the placing of the stars and the feng-shui of my apartment...the female body is a hysterical thing and bleeds at the slightest provocation.

I'll take "Not Being A Ridiculously Psychosomatic Person" for 200, Alex.

I'd not thought of ISIS that way - or in a way that would explain why people join ISIS. I guess it really is a terrorist/freedom-fighter deal. Or maybe like a cult. Even the smartest of people can get roped into a cult.

Young people want to feel as if they are doing something for a cause. That, too, like you guys said, is probably a huge part of it. And youth and extremism can go hand in hand. I just don't understand the kind of extremism that requires you to kill yourself or others for the cause.

There are some acts of murder that I can understand, at least intellectually. Crimes of passion, mostly. Come home and find your wife and best friend in bed together? Grabbing the gun and blowing both of them away while they're still in your sheets? I can understand that. Unplanned, unmediated murder that comes in a fit of human emotion? I can sorta get that. Murder for a cause that promotes genocide?

I don't get that. My mind just slides right off that, off any kind of explanation that could even be nominally satisfying. I guess it's a good thing I don't understand. It's probably one of those things I NEVER want to understand.

It is now 10:30 AM. My day will not be done until midnight. And as I didn't sleep well enough or long enough for my meds to finish doing the voodoo-that-they-do, I'm guaranteed to be exhausted within the next hour. Medicinal grogginess is SUCH a bitch.

SUCH a bitch.

12 years

Apr. 19th, 2016 11:46 pm
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This is me, 17 years old to 24 years old )

That is what lines the bulkheads of this ship. It is what comprises the anchor. These are the moors, the masts, the sails. Those pages, scattered and yellowing with age, often seem so much more the relevant foundation of who I am today than any of the 3,000+ entries I've written on Livejournal. Such a short time of my life, comparatively. Only seven years as opposed to the 12 years I have here.

It's easy to see why. Those were the years after I'd torn myself away from my family, the years I tore my own skin with razors and needles. They were also the years I finally began to get help and sought stable people. The effort was an immense undertaking, the results of which would not fully show themselves for years. But I had to take any brief cessation of pain as proof that it would get better someday, if I just kept trying.

Sometimes I think that's the hardest part of looking at those scrawled pages, the haphazard shoved together folders - the day by day, minute, blow by blow account of every goddamn banal, terrifying, beautiful, and impatient word - I was trying. Either I was trying to kill myself in the most sideways, cliched ways I could or else I was trying so desperately to make all of the pain count for something.

It counts. It counts so greatly that they have not yet invented the number that could describe the weight of its importance.

I'm just not always sure what it counts for. This is the struggle today, the words that both haunt and comfort. What was it worth? Does it matter so long as my life is my own? Is it okay to want to know the price paid for what you have?

But that's why I have the last 12 years. That's why I have all of you. The journey took a decidedly different turn the day I put my writing in the public sphere. Those seven years in that picture built me.

The last 12 years, the next 12 years, is what completes me.
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It's hard to write poetry
when you've gotten in the habit
of thinking in paragraphs
instead of line breaks.

That's mostly it. I miss writing poetry. Used to write it all the time, even in the more stable parts of my life. Now? Haven't written a real poem in ages. A few years.

I should start snagging poetry exercises and trying them. Or piggy-backing off of Jesse's poetry. Or something. It's funny - I'm familiar enough with the art of writing in journal form to know that it's something to be done even when you don't feel like it. That writer's block isn't so much an occurrence as a natural state of mind, sunrise, sunset, do what must be done anyways. The lack of inspiration is completely inconsequential to the practice of writing.

I wonder if poetry is the same way.
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* Su Carbs, all these years we thought your mother was crazy. Now, God, what almost 13 years later we find out why. The story explains more and more every time something new, or something old, is found out. As Davids story leaves me more than occasionally gaping, so does this story of what all of you have survived and are still surviving.

I don't know if anyone has told you that you are strong through and for all of this. You are strong. You are so damn strong.

* if the moment allows it, Cinema, I might pass on that link. It was helpful for me to read it, even as the last suicide I've outlived is years behind me. Making sense of the world with the rules....yes, that's it. That's what we hold onto, even if it causes us pain. And you're right, it's not so much about understanding sometimes as it is about comfort, even if that is a struggle.

That's so much for me think on over the next few days, the ways we try to rule and order the universe around us, and the ways we name and navigate the universe inside of us.

* Pain is so human. Human, not evil. Sometimes I forget that. I forget what drives the life behind us. Thank you for reminding me Michael.

* Disgruntled, maybe that's it too! **I** do that sometimes. Voice the darkest fears, the scariest things, even if I know they are lies, because once they've been drug up into the blinding light, it loses some of its shadow. My god, what you said was profound.

* I was telling Jesse how once in a while I just don't want to take my meds. Sometimes I miss where I used to go without them. Oh sure, the horror, the spirals, but by god if some of it wasn't so absolutely consuming as to be nearly spiritual. But then there's a descision I have to make.

See, I can do things like hold down a job and run a household when I'm unmedicated. I've done it before, I could do it again. But holding down a job and running a home isn't nearly as goddamn hard when I'm on my meds. I could go off my meds, toss them all out tonight, but it would take SO MUCH MORE EFFORT to do the regular adult things adults need to do.

Effort and work that is now freed up for...I don't know what else. But something else. Lord knows it's not for peace or forgiveness or acceptance, but that's the tradeoff. I don't feel as if the trade off is always even or if I've gained something that carries the same weight as what I've lost.

But being able to be at work, to hear what my boss said to me, so that I could relay it here, is contingent on being on my meds and that ability to be an adult in the daily living of an adult. It's what keeps me rooted enough to write an entry in which the words I receive, over and over again, are from people I love. People I trust, people whose own lives bring such knowledge into my life.

Alone, just writing, I am nothing but words on a page. Words on a page on a couple of sites that stopped being cool a decade ago, words just emptied into the vast ether or wires and digital signals. But if I do it right, if I do it carefully, what comes back to me is not just words. What comes to me is the wealth of words spun from those who know so much more than I could ever know.

There are laws that govern us all.

All of you are my laws. The moral fiber of what I line my path with, the signposts and signal flares that guide me back when I've wandered into the darkness. The bonfires in which things are clearly illuminated. I would be lost without you. Those who comment, those who do not comment, those who are endlessly patient with my terrible commenting skills myself. Nothing is wasted from any of you.

This is why I take my meds. I may always miss the singular idioglossia that comes with mental illness. But then I would miss this. I would miss all of you. That is a price far too high to ever be paid.
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I finally slept. 40 hours in and when I lay my head on the pillow, I didn't even make it a half hour before I fell asleep. This is good.

I spent most of yesterday going through Cassie's tags. It's actually something I don't DO often. Not with her, not with her story. I guess I generally feel that I write about her so much now that there's no need to go back to the overflowing tomes that I wrote about her then. What I found there yesterday surprised me, as it had very little to do with Cassie herself.

(1) Some of my best writing is in that tag.

(2) It's ridiculously cliche that my best writing would be tied up in one of the most painful subjects for me.

(3) Cliche or not, there it is.

I also know I would discover the same things if I were to go back through my "Family is a broken word" tag. The most poetic, the most evocative, the strongest declarations, the deepest descriptions.

In other words, my strongest writing comes from the strongest traumas. I know this is not unusual. It still gives me pause.


Oct. 8th, 2015 09:42 am
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I have little to say the last couple of days. I recall my poetic waxing about pushing the words through anyways and shake my head. I'm almost resentful towards the need to write. Why should I have to adhere to this damn philosophy of writing when nothing else in my life is going quite right? Why should I honor it when it does nothing for me right now? But that's not how it works and I know it. The words are independant of right or wrong, useful or useless. They are there regardless.

Constant, to which you'd think I'd appreciate lately, what with so much instability. Instead they seem almost trite, like child's play. They seem an empty gesture. Writing these words in a journal entry isn't going to get me a job. It's not going to get me laid. It's not going to do my dishes or reveal the nature of God. Writing is just THERE, just SOMETHING I DO.

And when I feel powerless to direct the rest of my life, you'd think words would present a perfect opportunity for exacting control. I write them, after all, so it's in my power to SHAPE those words in any way I want them. But they often spill out as superstition, something to ward off imagined inner slights and shames.

And here I am, having written yet ANOTHER entry about the wasted nature of words, having written it IN words, to display an astounding hypocrisy about what writing is for me. I've done this for decades. I will continue doing this for decades.

Sometimes I feel as if I am a snake eating its own tail. Forever turning circles over myself, never getting anywhere, tearing off pieces of myself to swallow because I cannot seem to twist out of my own reach. Each piece consumed - another opportunity, another mistake - shortening my length, ever more present the knowledge that what's been eaten cannot be coughed back up.

This isn't even maintenance. I don't know what this kind of writing is. Becoming agitated with something under my immediate control because I feel as if I've no control otherwise. Perhaps just frustrated writing. Frustrated writing about frustrating writing. God, how absolutely, ridiculously meta.


Sep. 28th, 2015 06:12 pm
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Seroquel makes a terrible lover. Five hours after a 13 hour slumber, I'm still wading through sleep and mud. I love Seroquel. I also hate it just a little.

Jesse and I were talking about writing, about harnessing that flash of inspiration. Except....there's not always a flash of inspiration. In fact, there's often not a flash of inspiration. More often than not, actually. It's just the way of the words. The way of the world.

But we keep writing anyways. That's what divides the writers from the wannabee's, right? The fact that we keep writing, that we put down pages and pages of uninspired, trite, banal bullshit, day after day, week after week, for months, for years, until we do catch that inspiration, that flare, ride it until it inevitably flickers out, and then we are back to writing everything about the nothing.

That's what makes the difference, right? Accepting that writer's block is more a state of mind rather than an occurrence and pushing through, laying down the words anyways. That's what makes the difference. That's what makes us better than the bad poets, the scrawlers, the average joe who whips out their Dear Diary once or twice a year.

Right? Is that what makes the difference? Because it doesn't always feel like it's content, it doesn't always feel like it's how many readers we have, it feels like it's about consistency. About slogging. About writing every day even if we hate it.

I don't really hate writing most days. I get sick of it. I get tired of it. I sometimes find it all absolutely useless and without any real form or value. But goddamnit, it's the only thing I know how to do. I told Jesse that it's the only thing I know how to do. Write. Word after word about the most boring things ever, until I hit that one, beautiful, shimmering moment and I zoom.

The story of Icarus, nor any of its retellings, has never had a happy ending, and so I always touch back on Earth. I suppose I have to. So even when the sun, its heat, or the wings aren't there, the words are.

He tells me that this is important. I know it is. Tallied up, an hour a day since I was 12, makes for nearly a year straight of my life doing nothing but penning words. No sleeping. No eating. Nothing but me and the page in front of me. It's impressive. It's also proof of a completely self-obsessed ego and the work of a woman who simply knows of no other way.

That doesn't make it good writing. It just makes it necessary. Others tell me that the two are much closer than I think. They likely are. But this...this, here, tonight, is THIS.....

Jesse and I talk about the amount of writing I do, the volume, the sheer, daily stack of words on words, often about nothing, sometimes about something, but always present. A desperate presence, some days even. He says this is what makes the difference. This is the hallmark between a writer and someone who wants to be a writer. That's what makes the difference, right?

People mistake that need to write, that habit, as immediate talent, or for practice, or for whatever is complimentary in the writer they are speaking to. I try to explain - I try to explain to anyone who brings up my writing - that so much of it is so useless.

I would not stop writing simply because it is useless. It is all I know how to do. There is no giving that up. I couldn't even if I tried - I KNOW this by this point in my life. But there are so many times, such long stretches of time, hours that weave themselves into months upon months, where my writing is nothing other than upkeep.

I come back to this concept so often. Moreso now that I am dating Jesse, who is also a writer, though internally spurned as his own writing has slowed and become erratic. He talks....WE talk....about the flare, the ability to show (not tell), of taking others along a roller coaster with a great big Feel Something Or Other at the end of the post.

And I keep saying "It doesn't work like that, Jesse. It so rarely works like that." He KNOWS it doesn't work like that, so whatever in the world am I trying to say when we talk about it? I don't know.

I just know I become frustrated, over and over again, not really knowing what makes the difference, and knowing that no matter how long I've been writing about my damn sleep schedule and the damn Seroquel and the damn cats and sunrise and dishes, I'll keep writing those entries and I'll keep ending those entries with disgust, saying "This isn't writing. This is maintenance."

"Jesse," I said. (Amanda, I say. Pat, I say. Hell, even Pat's MOM, I say.) "Don't you understand how that ending word in that sentence is spoken? Maintenance, it's spat out, it's rolled out, it's slapped down without impunity or compassion. It's just damn maintenance." I have written SO MANY ENTRIES about how much I loathe writing, even as I love it, knowing that getting meta about writing and writing about having nothing to write is just as useless any as other useless thing.

That's what makes the difference. I KNOW that's what makes the difference. That's what separates writers from wannabee's. It's maintenance. It's being willing to do that maintenance in between the flares, the flashes, for as long as it takes to get to the next shot of light in the sky.

I know this. I just wish I could do a little less maintenance and a little more flare. Certainly at least lately. But no matter, as I just have to keep writing. I just have to keep putting down the words, no matter what, no matter how ridiculous or useless they may be.

Things like this? This isn't writing. This is maintenance.
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And YES, Matrix, that is exactly it. A wonderful, wonderful point. And I like how you made it with the subject of Trance music, which has sadly long since hit its peak in the scene. Trance is my favorite electronica genre, but it's hard to find pure trance being made these days. But it doesn't mean what's being made NOW is bad, nor does it mean what was made THEN was bad, either.

It means that Trance was there, it flourished for a time, built a stage for further music to develop, and still holds a place in the ears of those who love electronica. It's neat that you use Trance specifically as a speaking point.

I often say that it amazes me just how simplistic 90's trance sounds to me now. At the time, of course, it was a virtual cacaphony of beautiful sound, new as it was, new as the technology to MAKE that sound was. But as the scene and technology has grown, we've been able to add multiple dimensions to the music, filled it with new symphonies.

I kind of look at writing that way. Or at least, my writing. I pull out my journals from when I was 17, or pull back through the archive of Livejournal ten years ago. My writing is still ME. It is still mine. But as with trance, I can see how simplistic the word choices were as opposed to today, where the writing is more complex, more layered. Still me, but a different sort of me now. As they will be in another ten years, re-reading them, being a different sort of me THEN than I am NOW.

The title on my journal "The words on the page have not changed. YOU have changed." is about that whole idea. I picked it up from one of my college textbooks. My Comp 2 textook, taught by the same man who taught my Creative Writing class. (The man picked WONDERFUL textbooks to work from.) The textbook was talking about the phenomenon of revision, of how each person brings their own personal definitions and experiences to words they read. Love, weight, loss - each of these words stir different memories, different connotations, for people, none quite exactly like the other.

And taken over a period of time, say ten years, you will inevitably look back and read different things INTO the words. You'll know more than you did when you penned the words. You'll notice different things, make different connections, than you were able to when you first penned the words.

It's what I rely on as a journaler. The words themselves stay penned, unchanged, unrevised. But what I see coming back to them, a year later, five years later, twenty years later, changes. It always changes. I always change - and there are always new words to pen that will both stay the same and change indefinitely as I get older.

Thank you for using Trance as an analogy, Matrix. That made me think and I appreciate that.

And yes, Frank, "climbing the mountain." That's a FANTASTIC way of putting it. That's what mania is. Hypomania feels like that and it's FUN....for a while. Even the screaming pitch feels fun for a while. But by the time it stops being fun, it's too late. I either have to inch down the mountain, toe by toe, (not seeking help, stumbling, and it takes forever to get back down) or else leap off entirely (taking new medication, leaping into the unknown of that).

I try to explain to Jesse what it's like - or at least, what he'll be dealing with. He said hopefully he never will, but I know better. Breakthrough episodes are A Thing with me. The trick is to catch them early, as we did last year, but eventually, something will slip through and I'll be halfway up the mountain before anyone around me (myself included) notices just how high I've gotten up the stony cliffs.

RANDOM: My natural hair color has changed. After the Murder-Your-Hair-By-Bleach-Bananza last summer, I decided to take a year and do nothing with my hair. No dying it at all, not even regular hair dye (which is fairly gentle on hair these days.) So my natural hair color is growing in - and it's DARKER than it used to be. WAY darker.

Like, nearly indistinguishable from the black hair dye I used six months ago. (Well, except for the annoying strands of silver and gray now mixed in around my temples.) My hair color used to be a sandy brown. Medium brown. It's now a very, very dark brown. I knew hair color could change as you got older, but I always thought it got lighter.

On the other hand, my hair is healthier than it's been in a decade. I did have to cut it to chin length. The split ends were so numerous that they had their own zip code. But it's growing out now - and my hair is the softest, silkiest, shiniest it's been in many, many years.
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I was pulling through the portfolio of writing I'd submitted for my term project in Creative Writing. This was back in 2011. I was 30 that year.

That semester started on the second worst manic episode of my entire life. The semester finished on the worst mixed episode I'd ever had in my life. The build, the crescendo, the plunge....it was all recorded. I turned it in for homework, for god's sake.

The writing shows it. Screams it, actually. Intense, flooding, dark, sexual, violent, fearful, arrogant, vulnerable. It all reads a mile a minute. It's eight million things shoving themselves to the surface, all wanting to be first. I wasn't so much open in my words as I flayed myself open to the bone. The writing is good. Some of it can be marked as my best writing of my entire life. It is not always easy for me to re-read.

If I'm honest, a part of me misses being in those places that produce that kind of writing. Those places of insanity, where the crazy becomes its own - and only - filter. I figure that's normal, for both artists and crazy people. But then I remember that intensity itself is not the hallmark of a great piece, that the fire must be tempered into form, lest it leave nothing but unrecognizable ash behind.

I managed to catch that form a few times that semester. It was beautiful. It was also, as crazy is, unsustainable. Thank god. Living there would be a quick ticket to Hell. Living there was a quick ticket to Hell.

A quick ticket that took six months to crawl out. Longer if you count the whole Other Woman bullshit that David dropped on me immediately after. That led to the single most devastating, most crippling, absolute worse depression of my entire life. Not just my entire adult life. But entire life PERIOD, including the years of abuse and terror at home.

(To be fair, there was no time or room to be depressed in those years at home. Survival required scrambling. Frantic movement. Desperate energy.)

I think had the Other Woman thing come at another time, or had the mania/mixed episode ended earlier, neither of those would have been as bad. But one right after the other...man, it just amazes me, looking back. It really, really does.
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I slept 12 hours straight. I almost never sleep that long straight. I can do 12 hours, but it'll be eight hours, wake up for a few hours, and then sometimes go down for a four hour nap. 12 hours straight. I came home, Jesse massaged my feet, and I was out by 6 PM. I didn't even eat dinner. I must have needed it. I felt a little bad for Jesse, who wanted to spend time together talking and hanging out yesterday.

I remember that. For years, Pat worked and I stayed home. I'd get stir crazy, lonely, and be practically bursting with the want to chat and hang out by the time he got home. He, of course, would be tired and want to just unwind.

So I remember the disparity. Jesse and I will get some hang time this weekend. It's funny to me, how sometimes you can live with a person, but due to work and obligations, not see them very often.

Rambles )

Oi. Sometimes I get so tired of this kind of writing. The writing without fire, the writing that is nothing but a ridiculous and boring blow-by-blow account of the days. I know this is one of the freedoms of journaling.

It is also one of the traps. It can be hard to grasp that thread of meaning that is present in every day and yank it through, to the forefront of the words. Writing about every passing thought makes it difficult to pinpoint WHICH thoughts are the important ones. There's no unveiling, there's no sudden shock of revelation or beauty. It's just writing.

It's putting down words just to put down words.

I know this sort of writing is nesscary, that this sort of writing is the "practice" that builds the bridge between the banal and the inspirational. I know I can credit this kind of writing for being what makes up the majority of my "talent" over the last 20 years.

It's just also really, really boring.
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Frank, holy shit was that really the guy's name? That invented the Pap smear? That is a NAME! If I were him, I'd shorten that to "Pap", too!

My name is unusual enough that people have come up with nicknames. It's Teressa, but pronounced like Clarissa. Like "Ter-AH-sa". I've been named Tressa, Tress, T, Tess, and Ann (my middle name.) As a child, mispronunciations of my name drove me bonkers. Not so much these days. I joke and tell people "I'll respond to anything but cursewords, and even then that depends on how close we are."

It's something I discussed with Rayhawk and Sistersolace, actually. Names, especially online names, and how they often eclipse our actual names. It makes sense - if you've been calling someone one thing for years, (say by LJ moniker) - it's going to feel a little unnatural to call them by their real name. So in meeting these people who are terrifically close to me, it's funny to note that using real names, personal names, is tricky. I mean, you'd think someone so close could easily be called by their first name. Not so in the world of online relationships.

Although it turned out Rayhawk IS Rayhawk's actual name. I remember being incredulous when I found that out. It's such a cool name that I was like "Really? How is that possible? NEAT!"

I don't clearly remember how "Quirkytizzy" came about. Maybe from an old friend who said something along the lines of "you're quirky and you're always in a tizzy." A fair and accurate statement. And as Rayhawk said, "You're always going to be Tizzy to me." Given the amount of material, work, and intimacy I've shared in this journal, under the name Quirkytizzy, I find it a term of honor and endearment.

Recently Pat joked about LJ being full of angsty 14 year olds. I corrected him, saying that if they are still on LJ today, those 14 year olds are now in their late 20's and generally less angsty. I don't think there are ANY 14 year olds on here today. Livejournal hasn't been relevant in a long time.

But I find that okay, as it means those of us who ARE still here, who DID stick around, are in a very tight-knit community. Even outside of our Flist, the site itself is small and we circle each other. The Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon abounds on LJ. And the nice thing is that no matter who I've talked to, if I disagree with that person's content or not, everyone seems to recognize that about LJ. We've drawn in on ourselves and as a result, the threads that connect us are strong.

Plus, the current managers of LJ are finally doin' it right. That's a relief.

And yeah, Cm, I am pretty much a crazy cat lady. My happy place is four cats. It would probably be five or six or ten, but space is an issue. I find cats to be regal. I know one of the draws of dogs is that they can be very human and connect on a very emotive, human level. I find the general alien-ness of cats comforting. And I like how independent they are. I generally have no need to entertain my cats (save for kittens, but kittens need the extra interaction), as cats entertain themselves. They are not needy. They also don't bark, which I appreciate. Loud and sudden noises upset me.

It's not that I dislike dogs. Dogs can't help but be needy and loud, that's just what they do. Can't blame them for it. It's just that they have characteristics that I'm not a fan of. Besides, apartment living is hell on dogs - even the little ones. There are scores of people in my building who have dogs. Big dogs. Even if you are walking them twice a day, it's not fair to confine a dog like that.

Cats have been, in more desperate years, my sole connection to this planet. Who would take care of them if I were to simply sign off one day? I have a responsibility, an obligation, to stay and be alive, be healthy, if nothing else to care for these animals I've taken under my care.

I do not want to be a mother to human children. That level of sacrifice in caring for something is far beyond my wish to do so. But I do like caring for living things, especially living furry things you can cuddle. Seeing as I don't want a dog and I have a black thumb when it comes to plants, cats are it.

I would have rodents (I looove mice and rats!) but there's no way to have rodents AND cats in a small apartment without stressing out the poor rodents. Not only would the cats be constantly staring at their cage, wondering why I've put their meal in such a complicated lunchbox, rodents need to be handled by their owners. They need interaction, too. Couldn't do that without risking the cats jumping in and biting off their little heads.

And a decapitated pet is just not something I think I could handle. Couldn't blame the cats for it if that happened, either - that's just what cats do. Best to just avoid the whole situation altogether.

God, I ramble about the most pointless things. It's part of the morning process, though, writing. Even if it is inane, banal, babble-y, it's still necessary to do so. This is the one part of "practice" that occasionally makes me laugh. I hold so dearly to the concept of practice, but in reality, my "practice" is and has been just decades of rambling. Writing down every passing thought in that self-obsessed way that journaling requires.

It doesn't always sound special. And while yes, it's work in that I occasionally have to force myself to write, it also feels like the most natural and welcome form of discipline in the world. Like, from the first journal entry I wrote in my first journal at 12 years old, it felt like I was coming home. I was excited to write every day - and did so, religiously. And I have continued to do so, religiously.

Is that practice or is that just finding the right thing? I guess it could be both. I consider myself exceedingly lucky that I found the "right thing" so young.

In a moment of infuriating irony, my stepfather once told me that God told him to get me that first journal at the age of 12. In my head, I went "Did God tell you to burn all of my journals when I was 17, too?" Yeah. I'll always carry a grudge about that. Wouldn't have been so bad but for the fact that they knew, they knew that those journals were the most treasured of all my things.

I have no doubt had I held something above those journals, that's what they would have burned. My books, my clothes, were returned to me in shreds. But the absolutely violent act of fire? Of burning something? It was the years of the loudest abuse that they reduced to ashes. The effigy of me, of what I lived through, of what they put me through. A shame it doesn't ACTUALLY erase those years. Then they would have been doing me a favor.

Oh well. In a most delicious irony, it was their burning of my words that made me hold fast to all the future words I would pen. They did tell me that they burned my journals - told me only a year or two afterwards, no less. My mother's voice held with it a sense of glee, of waiting for validation that their act of destruction had in some way destroyed ME.

But it was I who was gleeful in telling her that what they did only made me write more, only made me more willing to share what I wrote, made me all the more verbose. She actually sputtered. I mean, honest-to-God sputtered. It was glorious.

There but for the grace of God and abusive parents go I. Or at least, I and my continued need to write. I know enough to know that I would never have wandered away from words completely. But in their desperate attempt to make the words go away, it made the words all the more important to reach for.

Never let it be said that all things done out of spite are bad. What they did jolted the enjoyment of writing into a need to write. Out of spite, out of rebellion, out of a dawning understanding that words have POWER - power so strong as to make others respond to it with fire.

In my case, literal fire. They may have burned those journals. They may have destroyed my words into complete oblivion. What they did not destroy was the healing power of words. What they did not destroy was me.
quirkytizzy: (Default)
Jesse found something out yesterday while at his physical for the Disability application. He has arthritis in his hips. Osteoarthritis specifically, I think. (I did not know there were different kinds of arthritis.)

He did not have arthritis a year ago. He's long suspected something was up, as the pain in his hips had increased. But getting confirmation of it was a blow. I tried to reassure him that we will find ways to treat it. At the moment, though, it is of little comfort to him. I understand. Or at least, I can sympathize. I have no personal experience in long-term body ailments, but as aging worsens mental illness, I can sympathize. The rapid deterioration of the mind and body is never a happy subject.

I wish we lived in a state that did medical marijuana. Kansas does not. Hell, I'm surprised alcohol is legal in this state. Oi. But if it were legal and thus federally (or at least state) regulated, it would be far safer that way. I trust the guy he gets his weed from, but still. I've run enough years on the drug-circut to know that every once in a while, there's the risk of getting a laced batch.

People can talk shit about the FDA all they want. Fact is that they are the only thing that stands between us and asbestos ladened food. A million times that with drugs.

My morning shakes have returned, a thing that has plagued me for most of my life. I go through periods where it's not there, maybe six months or a year, but it always comes back. I wish I knew what made the difference. All I know is my mother shook in the mornings as well. It makes painting my nails difficult, as mornings are my favorite (and most free) time to do my nails.

In this I'm grateful that all of my lovers have been night owls. I'm a morning person. I love mornings. Even when I have to wake up to an alarm clock (thanks, super-sedative-that-is-Seroquel), I still enjoy mornings. As my lovers stay up late and sleep in late, it gives me hours of near-alone time, something everyone needs anyways. I rely on the quiet hours to be by myself, to write, to clean, to paint my nails, in peace.

I've heard that's why many night owls stay up, that those late hours when most of the world sleeps affords them the same alone time that my mornings do. It makes sense. And when you're living with someone in a 500 foot studio apartment....well, those staggered sleep schedules, those three or four hours where your lover is in bed and you are awake...it becomes even more important to have that.

Jesse and I are pretty good at having separate time when we are awake, too. Granted, in a place that's only one room altogether, "separate" means something along the lines of "I have my headphones on and am writing" and "Jesse is on his computer watching tv", but really, that's something every relationship needs, too. To allow each other to do other things while in the company of each other. David had a difficult time with this, instead wanting all of our awake and at-home time to be us engaged in doing something together.

Together is good. But together all the time is a recipe for disaster.

Jesse respects my time when I'm writing. There is never a need to ask twice if I'm asking Jesse to give me some time and space on the keyboard. Somedays I only write for a half hour.

Other days I'm writing FOR hours. No matter the span of time, Jesse will see it and step back, giving me the room to keep on it until I'm done. And if for some reason he doesn't see it, and I let him know "Hey, I'm writing, I need a bit to finish this", he will nod and go "no problem."

No sighs. No backhanded comments about writing being more important than him, as David often intoned (and then went "I'm just joking DURRR!")

Just....a respect for what I do and what I need to do it. He respects what writing is FOR ME, how necessary it is for my mental health, how much of my day depends on being able to write. He respects that it is, for me, the number one thing I do to take care of myself. He doesn't ask me to do anything that compromises, delays, or diminishes that. No matter if it takes a half hour a day or three hours a day, he allows me the room to perform this basic and vital form of self-care. And even outside of basic respect, being as he is a writer, he also understands the need for uninterrupted time when the Muse hits.

It's nice dating another writer. Well, it has its downsides once in a while, too. Ever have two writers trying to talk about their current projects at once? Maddening. And being as he is not a journaler, he does not understand the particulars of THIS kind of writing.

But he knows enough about writing to know how important it is, how beautiful and frustrating it can be, and that it is a non-negotiable part of myself. He understands THAT to his core.
quirkytizzy: (Default)
Jesse recently said something that made me think.

I spent about a year bouncing in and out of psych wards when I was 15. I was sharing about my ridiculously normal-teenage-attempts to fit in with my peers - and about how ridiculously UN-normal the way it came out. They were runaways. Addicts. Street smart. I was a nerd. Spoke without slang. Book smart. I was not what they were. I wanted to be. So, as teenagers do, I lied to look cool.

I lied that I did drugs. I lied that I had gotten pregnant and had an abortion. No one believed me, of course, but that's not what gets me now, nearly 20 years later.

What gets me is that I, at 15, accidently predicted my own future. At the time I was a virgin who had never so much as smoked a joint. Three years later at 18, I was shooting up and had joined the ranks of millions of women who've had abortions.

This isn't actually terribly hard to have predicted. Abused-kid dynamics mixed in with an early-showing addictive personalities often lead to drugs and sexual recklessness. It was a shock to no one that I fell into it. But what shocks me is that I somehow, accidently, based purely on sheer, teenage ego, voiced it.

I'm no believer in fate or destiny. I do not ascribe to the idea that any future selves can show up, even in ghost form, to our present selves. But I do believe in humanity being able to see itself in the small threads that show up in our lives, the ones that will later either tie a rope for us to climb or a noose for us to hang ourselves.

Those threads were there. Without meaning to, I ran my fingers over them, twisting them first this way and then that way. Claudia Christian says that she believes that we always know which way the story is headed, even if we can only clearly see it in retrospect. But, as she says, when we look back, it is always, always there.

It is something I believe in as well. It was this that caused Jesse to bite his lip and say "You are the most spiritual non-spiritual person I have ever met."

This is a statement that would normally be met with sighs and eye rolling. I am an atheist. We all know this. It was a bump in the road that was Early Jesse And I. We've managed to make this work, make it into a peaceful thing between us, mostly by not talking about it. Differing religious beliefs are very common in relationships these days and we are no different.

What I did was bite my lip back and tilt my head towards him, waiting for some kind of explanation. Some kind of exposition. What came next was simple - and profound. He said "You don't believe in spiritual things, but you do believe in the human spirit."

And I do. Deeply. Wildly. I would not call it so much "the human spirit", maybe. I don't believe it comes from some need to rely on something ephemeral, something as intangible as the word "spirit. But I do believe in some rather intangible concepts, such as unconsciously knowing where the story was going. Not only believe in them, but hold so fast to them as to where they are often a lifeline.

So I spent the next day at work thinking about what it was - or rather, where it comes from. And I think I have the answer.

It's writing.

Writers have a natural instinct towards embellishment. Towards taking an emotion, an event, and running it as far as it'll go, drawing it far and wide. It's how we find descriptive writing, how we put imagery into the words, how we make the connections that pull one paragraph into the next. This is important in writing. This is what makes good writing good.

It also means that we begin to depend on those connections ourselves, that we find meaning in them, and begin applying that to our own lives. Eventually, that'll work itself into our beliefs. So if we're writing about our own stories, relying heavily on retrospect, eventually we're going to find a way to make those two connect. In my case, by applying the belief that we somehow always know the course of the next few chapters.

In other words, writers wax poetic - and it becomes such a habit that it becomes natural to think that way.

So what do I write about? I write about very tangible events and then very intangible concepts to try and make sense of it all. All humans will work overtime to try and make their lives make sense. Writers are no different. We just do it on the page, which naturally leads to finding ever more poetic ways to put it.

While you can't found a religion on poetry, you can damn well come to rely on poetry as a form of prayer. The things you write poetry about will come to fall under that sacred place and it will come to sound almost as spiritual as any text of the world's religions.

The intent may be different, but the sounds of this kind of reverence will echo the same. It'd be easy to mistake one for the other. Maybe it's not something I should be offended by.

It's something to think about. And in the meantime, maybe not bristle so damn fast when Jesse mentions the words "you" and "spiritual" in the same sentence.


Aug. 21st, 2015 11:37 pm
quirkytizzy: (Default)
There is a book. A book by a woman named May Sarton called "Mrs Stevenson Hears The Mermaids Singing." Sarton was an author whose works didn't receive much attention until she was well into her 60's. She died in the mid-1980's of cancer. Having had decades to hone her practice, she wrote with a strength and fragility that would seem completely out of place with other authors. With her, however, it sang who she was and what she lived for.

It was the first book I attempted to read when I got clean. The 200 pages took me almost 3 months to get through, so thoroughly damaged had my brain become from the drugs. The brain really is a muscle, though, and eventually my reading comprehension climbed back to normal levels. It just took a while.

As a previously avid reader, it was immensely frustrating and I often thought of giving up trying to read. Not just putting the book down, but to forever walk away from words altogether. Thankfully, I kept at it. So this book, even putting content aside, holds a great deal of importance to me. It represents reaching for something of my old self after having trampled my entire self into near oblivion.

May Sarton's works included poetry, publishing her journals, and writing fictionalized accounts of stories that closely mirrored her own life. She was terribly, wonderfully insightful in ways that both lifted her up and tore her down. I would think (and I should look) that she could have easily been diagnosed as bipolar or borderline, so violent was her inner landscape. No matter how peaceful the words came out, there were oceans of battered emotions that swelled behind them. It was what did most of her relationships as a lover in.

It was also what made her writing so powerful.

I'd originally picked up "Mrs Stevenson Hears The Mermaids Singing" because lesbianism (is that really a word?) was a prominent theme. May Sarton was technically bisexual, but she leaned much closer to the gay side of the spectrum than not.

I was, at the time, in a relationship with a woman. Ours was a careening, dysfunctional, and utterly profound relationship. I needed something to relate to. May Sarton provided that. And long after that relationship was gone, May's works continued to provide connection.

The overall theme in this book is learning how to balance passion for others with sanity of the self. It is a theme I come to often in my life. Over and over, actually. To not slip a death-grip onto those around me, to not allow myself to chase off after people who aren't able to reciprocate, to not overwhelm people with The Overshare. And then, as a result, to not slide into the opposite corner, where I share with no one, where I lock the door to my apartment and never leave the house.

Medication and treatment helps, as it gives me the mental room to grab my own leash before I tear off into the void. But the urge still remains - and I think it always will. Call it a programming error that lies somewhere deep inside my brain. Call it the wildly dysfunctional but difficult to let go of stereotype of the starving artist looking for validation. Call it the result of a traumatic childhood that instilled unhealthy attitudes about how to connect to people. Call it whatever you like and it is still there.

It is wildly comforting to know that I am not the only who struggles with this. I am not only not the only one who struggles with this, but one woman out there managed to pour it into something publishable, to something that reaches a greater audience.

See, I realized something the other day. I realized that no matter how loudly I protest not wanting to write that book (it's always that book with writers), everyone around me knows that is bullshit. Everyone around me knows just how much I really DO want to write it - and that the only reason I've gone on the defensive is because I'm scared I won't be able to do it.

The last few years have been exceedingly difficult. Dreams are not a luxery one affords themselves when they are struggling to feed themselves. Or at least, it is not something I am able to do. As my energy for anything more than journaling has only continued to spiral downward, it was just easier to pretend that I didn't really want to do it anyways. I had other, more important shit to do - like not being homeless and figuring out how to feed my cats.

But the stability of this job is providing a bit of light down that tunnel. As if, when I finally do get settled, maybe I'll have some spare energy. Maybe I'll have some spare resources. Maybe then I will be able to concentrate and not just get bitter and resentful towards the empty page.

I was at work and had the thought that I could die today. Being as this is a warehouse, I had a flash of a 90 pound engine falling on my head and then what would I be? I would be a cautionary tale my loved ones tell their children, their nieces and nephews, about following your dreams before it is too late.

I don't want to be that cautionary tale.

Patrick had said I'd managed to go to each extreme with this idea, but yet ending up in the same place every time. He said I went from talking about the book I would never write to talking about the book I didn't WANT to write (and thus would never write.)

I will not be an astronaut. I will not be a paleontologist. I will not be President of the United States. I won't be any of those that childhood-Teressa thought she wanted to be. Some dreams truly are out of reach and besides, I'd never pass the initial vetting process.

But maybe, like Pat says, maybe, like Jesse says, maybe, like Rayhawk says, there's something I can do with this. With my writing in general. With trying to not desperately pretend that I don't want to do something with this.

I have no idea how one starts a memoir. A good memoir is not a life story. It is not an autobiography. It is a light shone over a theme in your life. But surely all of this writing will be good for something. Surely it will help inform me of how to do this, how to start, or even how to just get comfortable with wanting to start.

I guess I'm just tired of lying - especially as everyone around me knows the truth. Even if I do not start writing that book, at least I can be honest about wanting to write it.

A thing

Jun. 30th, 2015 11:32 am
quirkytizzy: (Default)

I had a thing I was going to write about. And then I didn't have a thing I was going to write about, so I was going to write about how I don't have anything to write about, and now that I'm writing I'm remembering that what I wanted to write about was not having anything to write about.

That's some meta shit, yo. Writers get stuck in that all the time. Or at least, I do. Endless pages, countless entries, words following words on how there are no words. I would say no other craft experiences this, except I once heard a song Amanda Palmer had penned about how this is what you get when you force-request a singer to sing at the end of a long and exhausting tour. Something about New Zealand, I think. I'm not really an Amanda Palmer fan, but that song cracked me up.

I've never had anyone directly request that I write about them. I take this as a blessing, as I pretty much write for myself, my friends, and anything past that makes me grumpy. And thank GOD I've yet to have anyone request I write about them, personally. It would not be flattering. It would NEVER be flattering. My writing tends to wander over my insecurities, my annoyances, fears, worries, and generally all the things about people that it's impolite to share with them.

Jesse did once ask what it would take to drive me mad enough to write poetry about him. I told him that such a thing would not lead to declarations of love in metered form. My poetry comes from pain, confusion, or contempt - none of which are things one carries to read when they need a self-esteem boost. I later told him he has one of the highest honors in my life - an LJ tag by name. I write about everyone, but only the ones who've dug themselves deep are here by name. The ones that carve a channel, for better or for worse, across my heart.

He has such a marker. That is poetry - and he seems to appreciate it as such. Those physically in my life, who see me face-to-face, skin to skin, the honor is a name. And it is a name here.

quirkytizzy: (Default)
I love mornings because that's when the words come freely and easily. As the morning wears on, of course, so do the words. I dislike that part, especially as without the internet, all I have are the words in Wordpad. But three hours after I get up, the words stop flowing, and I am bereft and bored. And usually hot and cold.

Like Katy Perry, but without eyes that could stop warring troops with a single bat of the lashes.

--------------------- 6/27/2015

Tagging this shit's also gonna be a bitch )


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